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Eulogy (part 1)

My father spent the last few years of his life on the streets of San Jose, homeless. He separated from his wife. He refused to take medication that would’ve helped him deal with being Bipolar. He refused help and handouts. His driving force for living another day was securing my inheritance and ultimately his legacy. He lost most of his grip on reality at that time, but still very much brilliant and majestic. My aunt and uncles found him once and had him admitted into a home for mental patients. He was out processed shortly after, because the doctors and other caregivers could find no insanity in him whatsoever. He was described as charming and engaging. And so he returned to the streets of San Jose, a prince.

I flew out to San Jose when I was notified of his death. I walked the streets where he roamed and ruled, my father the prince. I sensed his charm and majesty as I stood in the place where he drew his last breath. Equally I felt his pain and failure as I wondered what was going through his mind that night as he waited to die on the sidewalk. In his wallet, two dollars and five dimes, hardly the inheritance he expected to leave for me. I wish he knew that I didn’t give a damn about the money. He wouldn’t accept that and for the longest, I didn’t understand. It wasn’t until he died, that I finally understood why what he would leave for me was so important to him. He was worried about his legacy. How would I remember him? Would I honor him? I felt anger as I wondered why he didn’t want to be rescued. Why didn’t he humble himself and ask for help? But I guess all royalty struggles with asking for charity.

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